


Lives of Quiet Desperation

by osprey_archer



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:37:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire felt suddenly tired. “You care too much. About everything. Definitely about me.”</p><p>Enjolras stopped pacing. His hair, dark with rain, hung in tails around his face. “I can barely stand you,” Enjolras reminded Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter Enjolras

Sometime around three in the afternoon, his head pounding like a drum, Grantaire stumbled into the coffee shop. He had slept through all his classes (he thought; he missed so many classes he wasn’t actually sure which classes he was taking anymore).

He’d never been to this coffee shop before. It was one of the antiseptic campus coffee shops, too bright with fluorescent lights that made Grantaire settle his sunglasses more firmly on his nose. Not many people in it, though, which Grantaire approved. It was tucked into the corner of one of the science buildings so the students could get some caffeine to keep them going when they crawled out of their labs.

Seemed like they didn’t get out of their labs much. There was only one student in line ahead of him. “One Americano, one mocha with soy milk, and four lattes with double shots of espresso,” the guy said, way too loud. His voice made Grantaire’s head ache more. “Biggest size you’ve got. And goddamnit, Enjolras, no lectures this time!”

“If you got reusable cups I wouldn’t have to lecture,” the barista said. The big coffee machine hid him from Grantaire’s view, but his voice rang through the shop, as if he were giving some sort of speech. It made Grantaire’s head pound.

Maybe the Everclear _had_ been a mistake, after all, because Grantaire couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hangover this bad. Cheap, though. Who cared, really.

“Think of all the rainforest trees cut down to supply these cups!” said the barista. “And the boreal forests in Canada! Your lab studies biology, how can you _not_ worry about the sickening rate of deforestation?”

“Because we’re worried about our _grades_ ,” the biology student said. He sounded desperate. “Are you almost done with those?”

The barista let off a jet of steam from the coffee machine. “Grades!” he shouted. “Who cares about grades! We’re talking about the future of the planet! The life or death of millions of species, destroyed by thoughtless human greed!”

His speech should have made Grantaire’s headache worse. But the barista’s voice seemed…soothing, was the word that came to Grantaire’s mind, even though that made no sense. This voice was fierce, strident, passionate, the opposite of calming.

But the certainty in it braced Grantaire.

“Butterflies died to bring you these coffee cups!” thundered the barista.

“Oh my _God_ , Enjolras, do I have to hear this speech every fucking time I come here? I’ve been in the lab for thirty fucking hours! I’m starting to see double! Isn’t that stupid little clique that listens to every word you say enough for you?” demanded the biology student. “Do I have to listen to it every time, too?”

Grantaire expected the barista to yell right back, or maybe grovel; but he didn’t say anything. There was a short silence, and then the biology student gasped, “Fine.” He was – God, was he crying? “Fine, I’ll buy the fucking Thermos! Then will you leave me the fuck alone, Enjolras?”

“No,” said Enjolras. Suddenly his hands appeared on the counter: big hands, gesturing for emphasis even as he set out the drinks in a pair of drink holders. “The conditions your lab keeps its parrots in are disgraceful. The fact that we experiment on animals at all is disgusting, but keeping parrots! They’re an intelligent species! How would you feel is someone kept you in a cage too small for you and cut off part of your legs so you couldn’t run away and – ”

“I’m sending Eponine next time!” the biology student roared. He snatched up the drinks and stormed out, clipping Grantaire on his way out. Grantaire was still drunk enough that it knocked him off balance.

But it wasn’t that which made him half-collapse in one of the sturdy wooden chairs. No: it was the sight of Enjolras, leaning over the bar to call after the student. “At least Eponine cares about the world!” Enjolras shouted; but Grantaire wasn’t listening, because he was staring at Enjolras’ face.

Enjolras’ face. Fierce chin, blazing eyes. Waving golden hair, shining even in the harsh fluorescent lights. And the sunlight: Grantaire realized dimly that the café was lined with windows, and all their sunlight seemed to be concentrated on Enjolras’ blazing head.

The biology student left. Enjolras’s nostrils flared – God, even his nostrils were beautiful. He eased himself off the counter and smoothed his red apron: university color. “What would you like?” Enjolras said. 

_You_ , Grantaire thought.

“Uh,” he said. His mouth was dry. His mouth was usually dry, side effect of too much drinking, but this was something else. “Espresso,” he said. “Two shots of espresso. And,” he said, and could not believe he was saying it, could not believe he was wasting the money: “A Thermos.”

Enjolras smiled. And in that moment, Grantaire knew he would give anything to see Enjolras smile again.


	2. What Do You Believe In?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you become a communist because you look so good in red?” Grantaire asked.

It could not last, of course. Oh, Grantaire’s crush lasted; Grantaire’s crush would last forever.

But Enjolras’s approval of Grantaire, of course, did not last a week. On Thursday evening, after an extended happy hour at one of the local dives, Grantaire landed in the middle of Enjolras’s “little clique,” as the science student had called it.

“We’re les Amis de l’ABC,” a dark-haired girl explained to Grantaire, shouting to be heard above the cacophony. Enjolras was pounding on the table, ranting about capitalists. He looked amazing in red. “It’s a pun. In French, apparently. Marius made it up. When he was a kid he had a French tutor and a German tutor and a Chinese nanny, but we love him anyway.”

She looked across the room. A freckly fellow who must be Marius glanced at them and grinned, just for a second before diving back into a debate, and the dark-haired girl lit up like a Christmas tree.

“So what brings you here?” she asked Grantaire.

Grantaire smothered a burp. It tasted like tequila. “Enjolras.”

“Well, sure, he brings everyone. But what’s your specialty? Monkeywrenching? Communist revolution? Anarchism?” She clasped her hands. “Please tell me you’re an anarchist. No one wants to talk Bakunin with me.” 

Grantaire felt almost sorry to disappoint her. Grantaire had felt more feelings in the last week than he had ever intended to feel. “Really, just Enjolras,” he said. “He is so, so pretty.”

She looked across at Enjolras, pounding the table to bring his point home. “I guess so,” she said doubtfully. 

“He has a nose,” Grantaire explained. “It’s – a nose. And a chin! And his hair! Like sunlight. It glows in the sunlight. And when there’s no sunlight. It’s so _bright_.”

The dark-haired girl was giggling. “Jehan has some competition.”

“He loves Enjolras too?” Grantaire asked. (Love? He hadn’t even had a conversation with the man and he was already saying _love_? Clearly it was time to dig another beer out of his backpack.)

“No,” said the girl. “He writes poetry.” She watched as Grantaire struggled with his beer tab, then took the can from his hands and popped it open for him. “I’m Eponine,” she said, sticking out a hand. She had a tattoo of a snake around her wrist, peeking out under her blue jeans jacket.

“Grantaire,” he said, and they shook.

“I’m sitting over here with you because it gives me a better view of Marius,” she admitted.

Grantaire had already forgotten which one was Marius. “I don’t even like coffee,” he told Eponine.

She gave a shriek of laughter and toasted him with her mocha. “To unrequited love!”

He clinked his beer can against her cup. 

Somehow, Eponine herded the Amis out of the coffee shop early that night: an indie band, or something like that. Enjolras came over to Grantaire’s table. “Don’t tell me. I don’t have to go home, but I can’t stay here,” Grantaire said, reaching to flip shut his notebook full of doodles. He knocked over his beer. Empty. He didn’t remember drinking it. 

“Not yet,” said Enjolras. He put his hand on Grantaire’s arm to stop him. Grantaire seemed to feel the touch down to his toes, so exquisite that it was almost painful, like an electric shock that put his teeth on edge.

Enjolras let him go and sat down across from him. His eyes seemed to bore into Grantaire. Despite thinking of little but Enjolras all week, Grantaire still didn’t know quite what color his idol’s eyes were: somehow whenever he got the chance to look at them, the intensity of Enjolras’s gaze distracted him.

Enjolras leaned across the table. “What do you believe in?” he asked.

_Your face_. Grantaire was not quite drunk enough to say that. “Uh…” he said.

Enjolras’s brows snapped together. He had angry eyebrows. No, serious eyebrows. Eyebrows. Right. Also eyelashes. Did Enjolras have eyelashes? It was hard to tell because his eyes were so wide and fiery all the time. Maybe the fire burned his eyelashes away.

“You must believe in something,” Enjolras said. He leaned across the table, then leaned back at the smell of Grantaire’s beer breath. “Have you read Marx?”

“No.”

“Fanon?”

“Who?”

Enjolras’s brows contracted further. “Edward Abbey?”

“I’ve read Nietszche,” Grantaire offered.

“Nietzche!” Enjolras’s face twisted briefly in disgust. “You’ve let the abyss stare into you too long, my friend,” he said. (Friend? They were friends?) “Come back to the light with us.” He leaned forward, eyes blazing. “You’ve read the Declaration of Independence at least?”

Grantaire studied Enjolras’s face for sarcasm. “You believe in the Declaration of Independence?” he asked, trying not to sound incredulous. Somehow it seemed unrevolutionary to believe in something so American, but Enjolras looked serious. It was possible that Enjolras didn’t know how to joke.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal!” Enjolras declaimed. His voice filled the little coffee shop. “Of course it’s sexist. And speciesist,” Enjolras conceded. “And the document is implicitly racist. But it is admirably succinct.” Enjolras fixed his eyes on Grantaire. “Do you believe in the Declaration of Independence?”

Grantaire’s head swam. Did he believe that all men (and intelligent animals, apparently) were created equal?

He knew he wasn’t equal to Enjolras. “I believe in anything that will get me another drink,” Grantaire said lightly.

Abruptly Enjolras’s face shuttered. “That’s worse than nothing,” he said. He retied his red apron and picked up a mop. His shoulder blades pressed against his shirt as he mopped, and his golden hair seemed like a flame beside his red apron.

“Did you become a communist because you look so good in red?” Grantaire asked.

Of course Enjolras despised him after that.


	3. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“But mooning over an infatuation is still a waste of time!” Enjolras said. “Sexual relationships should be efficient, just frequent enough to keep both partners satisfied so they can focus their attention on the more important work of – ”_
> 
> _Marius fake-gagged. “Agree to disagree, my friend._

On Tuesday and Thursday evenings, the evenings Enjolras worked, the coffee shop in the biology building became a political club. Well, club might be the wrong word. Club implied that they agreed on anything, when in fact they spent most of their time shouting about how wrong, wrong, wrong all the others were.

Enjolras believed in overthrowing everything. Immediately. With violence.

Combeferre, or maybe Courfeyrac – Grantaire was so busy watching Enjolras that he has trouble keeping the others straight sometimes – thought that a violent overthrow would just make things worse. “Education!” he would cry, pounding his Thermos against the table.

Eponine believed in all sorts of things, but mainly Marius. Grantaire felt a sort of kinship for her. He knew was what it was to pine pointlessly after someone who would never notice him. Except Marius did notice Eponine, if not the way she wanted him to. He didn’t ignore her as if she were the gum on his shoe, the way Enjolras ignored Grantaire.

Marius was rather an odd bird out. Unlike the others, he didn’t have a Cause. Or at least, he hadn’t before. But that night he brought in a new deity: love.

“Love!” shouted Enjolras. “Love is an illusion!”

Grantaire used to believe love was an illusion, too. It depressed him that this was probably the only thing he and Enjolras had ever agreed on. And there was no vodka left in his Thermos, either. 

“Personal romantic love is a bourgeois invention!” Enjolras said. “It’s a waste of time, a way to distract us from the urgent necessity of revolution by making us wallow in a manufactured emotion.”

Marius was impervious. “I love Cosette,” he said. “She’s beautiful and angelic and pure.”

Enjolras gagged. “Angelic! _Pure_!”

Grantaie made a mental note: _Don’t tell Enjolras he’s angelic and pure when I drunkenly confess my love_. Never mind he thought that about Enjolras a lot. 

“Marius, this kind of purity shit has been keeping women down for centuries,” said Eponine, voice savage with hurt. “It’s so hypocritical expecting sexual purity from girls when _you’ve_ been around the block! Cosette has the right to have a dirty, filthy, sex-crazed past!” 

“Her past doesn’t matter,” Marius insisted. “She’s pure inside. She and her father were giving money to the homeless guy on College Avenue when I met her. You know, the one who smells bad? They didn’t just toss a dollar at him and hurry off, they actually sat down and talked to him.” 

Enjolras snorted. “Giving away money is just a way to prolong a system that we ought to overthrow, by making the system’s iniquities seem more bearable.”

“Oh, the joys of violent overthrow!” Combeferre said scornfully. “Because that worked _so_ well in Russia and China and Cuba and – ”

“Of course revolutions kill people!” Enjolras said. “But so does capitalism! It’s just better at hiding its victims, because deceit is the cornerstone of – ”

“She has blonde hair,” Marius informed the gathering at large. The Amis joined together in hurling balled up napkins and straw wrappers at him.

“How can you care what color her hair is when thousands of children die of cholera every day? How can you waste time thinking about her eyes when humans destroy five acres of rainforest habitat – ” He snapped his fingers – “like that!”

“Seriously, though!” Marius protested. “You have to believe in love, Enjolras. I mean really. Don’t you ever get horny?”

Enjolras’ face stained red. For a moment he couldn’t speak, just stood there blushing. It made him more beautiful. Grantaire wished he could make Enjolras blush like that. 

Marius pressed his advantage. "If you never have sex, it will distract you from the revolution even more!” Marius said. “How can you think about saving the rainforest when all you can think about is how much you need to get laid?”

Enjolras, rarely, was silent, and the Amis fell silent too, waiting. “You might be right,” Enjolras said. He paused, his knuckles against his lips as he thought. “No, you _are_ right,” Enjolras said, and confidence blazed in his voice again. “We can’t let lust build up and distract us from the revolution!”

“I’m right?” said Marius. “Did he just say I’m right? Did I just win an argument with Enjolras?” 

“Yes,” said Enjolras. Grantaire was surprised by the grace with which he admitted it: he had thought Enjolras would defend any position to the death rather than admit himself wrong. 

Another way Enjolras was perfect. Grantaire was so screwed.

“But mooning over an infatuation is still a waste of time!” Enjolras said. “Sexual relationships should be efficient, just frequent enough to keep both partners satisfied so they can focus their attention on the more important work of – ”

Marius fake-gagged. “Agree to disagree, my friend. Drinks for everyone!” 

***

By the time the Amis left that evening, Grantaire had been in the coffeeshop for so long that he was stone cold sober. This often happened by the time Enjolras got off his shifts, in fact: whenever they had a chance to talk, Grantaire was far from drunk enough. 

Possibly Grantaire was just putting off his drunken confession of love. How sad was that?

Though Enjolras thought Grantaire spent most of his time far, far too drunk. Grantaire treasured every “You drink too much,” parently because that was almost all Enjolras ever said to him, but also because it seemed to Grantaire that Enjolras expressed affection through disapproval. 

That evening, though, Enjolras seemed too preoccupied even to lecture Grantaire about his drinking. Grantaire didn’t mind; when Enjolras was preoccupied, he became so oblivious to the world that Grantaire could watch him without embarrassment. 

Almost without embarrassment. He watched Enjolras’s reflection in the window rather than Enjolras himself; it was almost too painful to look directly at Enjolras sometimes, as if he were the sun descended to earth. 

And it was one thing to keep his eyes fastened on Enjolras when all the Amis were here – all the Amis stared at Enjolras – but now that the Amis had left and Grantaire was all alone in the coffee shop, doodling while Enjolras cleaned up, it seemed too obvious to stare.

Not that Grantaire wasn’t already as obvious as a neon sign.

Suddenly Enjolras sat down in the chair across from him. Grantaire turned slowly away from the window, heart beating erratically. Since that first discussion, Enjolras had ignored him. Why had he said he believed in anything that would get him another drink? Well, because usually people found his flippancy funny. Of course Enjolras thought flippancy disgusting –

Enjolras was looked at Grantaire intently, eyes fixed on Grantaire's face. "You know my heart beats only for revolution," Enjolras said seriously, leaning over the table.

Somehow, Grantaire couldn't look away from Enjolras' eyes. "Of course," Grantaire said. "You never talk about anything else."

"But," said Enjolras, and his eyes seemed to burn hotter. No, surely Grantaire was imagining that. “But,” Enjolras said again. He tapped a knuckle on the table. He seemed…unsure? Grantaire’s heart stuttered. “Marius was right this evening. I’ve found myself distracted lately, unable to concentrate.”

Grantaire’s heart seemed to stop. “Really,” he said, struggling so hard to control his voice that it came out flat. Could it be that Enjolras – ?

“Even a revolutionary has needs,” said Enjolras. He sounded…defensive? No, self-accusing.

“Everyone has needs,” Grantaire assured him. 

“Of course everyone has needs,” Enjolras said. He shook his head. “I thought I had purged my soul of these ideas, but no! I still believe in the duality of the body and the mind. But the mind doesn’t work if our bodily functions aren’t taken care of, and our minds have to be absolutely sharp if we’re going to root out the twisted hegemonic standards warping our thoughts.”

Grantaire was far, far too sober to be having this conversation. “Right,” he said.

Enjolras snorted. “Not that you care.”

“Never,” Grantaire agreed. 

“Exactly,” said Enjolras. He leaned across the table. Grantaire could see individual eyelashes, he was so close. “Will you sleep with me, Grantaire?"

Fortunately Grantaire had finished his espresso hours ago, or he would have spat it all over his notebook full of doodles. "Yes, of course, absolutely,” he blurted, and was horrified by his own puppy eagerness. His heart pounded. “Wait, _what_? Why me?” Did Enjolras like him back? Even, perhaps –

“You're here,” Enjolras said.

Oh. Grantaire looked down at the table. That was…that was not quite what Grantaire had wanted. Well, who believed in love anyway?

“And you don’t care about anything, so you won't take it seriously,” Enjolras said, still serious, because he was always serious. Grantaire swallowed, and swallowed again. He couldn’t quite seem to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“And you’re reasonably attractive,” Enjolras said. 

“Am I really?” Grantaire said, and was surprised to hear that his own voice sounded...flirtatious. Jesus Christ. 

“Yes,” said Enjolras. “Your hair, and your eyes, and...” He gestured at Grantaire’s face vaguely, then dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “That will make this so much more efficient.”

Efficient. _Efficient._ It should have made Grantaire feel better to know Enjolras thought he was cute, but no. So what if Enjolras liked his looks? He still despised everything else about Grantaire. 

God, where was his hip flask when he needed it?

Enjolras stood up. “We’ll go back to my room once I’m done cleaning up here?” he asked, voice rising slightly at the end, and...God, he was blushing. 

Grantaire should have said no, but Enjolras was just so damn beautiful when he blushed. 

“Wouldn’t it be more efficient just to fuck in the storeroom?” Grantaire asked sarcastically. 

“Yes!” Enjolras said, to Grantaire’s horror. “But not the storeroom. We might knock something over. Bathroom?” And he set aside his mop and started toward the bathroom. 

And Grantaire, against all better judgment, pushed back his chair, and followed.


	4. Sex (and Other Disasters)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So,” said Grantaire. “Let’s be efficient. What do you usually think about when you jerk off?”_
> 
> _Enjolras grew, if possible, tenser still. Shit. Well, of course that made Enjolras self-conscious. “I like to think about Scotch,” Grantaire offered._

Enjolras leaned against the bathroom door, arms folded over his chest, frowning at Grantaire, who stood awkwardly by the urinal. It was so depressing Grantaire almost wanted to laugh: all Enjolras’s talk about _efficiency_ , and here Enjolras had no idea what to do next. Enjolras’s cheeks flushed redder as the seconds passed, his lips pressed together. He looked angry, though Grantaire suspected he was just trying to hide his embarrassment. 

Well, it wasn’t like Grantaire didn’t have a Christmas list half a mile long of things he’d like to do with Enjolras. He planted his hands on the door on either side of Enjolras’s head, and leaned in to kiss him. 

Enjolras leaned away. His hair brushed against Grantaire’s hand. “What are you doing?” he demanded. 

“Um,” said Grantaire, mortified. “So what do you want to do?” 

Enjolras’s frown deepened. God, he was so hot when he was angry. Grantaire ached to touch – how could he be so turned on already? – but the frown paralyzed him. 

Grantaire snapped off the light. He couldn’t see Enjolras’s face anymore, but at least he couldn’t see that forbidding frown either. “Better?” Grantaire asked. 

Enjolras’s hair brushed against Grantaire’s hands as he nodded. Grantaire let his hands drift into Enjolras’s soft hair, warm as if he’d been standing in the sun. He swallowed. Enjolras did _not_ want to be kissed; Grantaire would resist temptation. 

He stepped forward, though, close enough that he could feel the heat rising off Enjolras’s body. He shouldn’t be this turned on just by standing close to Enjolras. It would be super embarrassing if he came before Enjolras even uncrossed his fucking arms. 

God, Enjolras was tense: not a sexy kind of tension, but so tense that he felt like stone. It was like touching a Greek statue. 

“Are you a virgin?” Grantaire blurted. Oh, so tactful. 

Enjolras snorted, his breath warm on Grantaire’s skin. Grantaire shivered. “Virginity is a fetish of the patriarchy,” Enjolras said, his voice tight. 

Grantaire translated: _yes, yes, a thousand times yes_. “You know we don’t have to…” he began. 

“I want to,” Enjolras insisted. 

_Then you need to relax_ , Grantaire almost said, but he wasn’t sure Enjolras had ever relaxed in his life. Instead he slid his hands from Enjolras’s hair to his tense shoulders, pressing his thumbs against Enjolras’s collarbones. Enjolras’s breath brushed against Grantaire’s face, and Grantaire remembered just in time that Enjolras did not want to be kissed, and twisted his head to press his cheek against Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras gave a little gasp, and lifted a hand to touch Grantaire’s curls. 

Encouraging. “So,” said Grantaire. “Let’s be efficient. What do you usually think about when you jerk off?” 

Enjolras grew, if possible, tenser still. Shit. Well, of course that made Enjolras self-conscious. “I like to think about Scotch,” Grantaire offered.

Enjolras snorted. One arm looped around Grantaire’s waist. “Of course you do,” he said, twisting his fingers through a belt loop. It pulled Grantaire’s jeans tight against his cock. _Fuck_. He pressed Enjolras against the door, grinding his hips against Enjolras’s. Enjolras was hard too, fuck, thank God, Grantaire might have died of embarrassment otherwise.

“Or tequila,” gasped Grantaire, He let his hands drift down Enjolras’s sides, pulling up Enjolras’s shirt to touch his bare skin, the muscles taut underneath, Enjolras panting in his ear. “Or – or rum, or, fuck,” Enjolras hand had tightened in Grantaire’s hair, and fuck, it felt so good, “ _Fuck_ , Enjolras.” 

“I didn’t know you could drink that,” Enjolras said. 

It took Grantaire a moment to realize that Enjolras had made a joke. “I can drink anything,” he informed Enjolras loftily, and almost choked, because what was that but an offer to give Enjolras a blowjob? 

And he wanted to, even more than he wanted Enjolras’s hands on his skin – as much as he wanted to kiss Enjolras. He had thought Enjolras was above him since they met, and how better to show it then to kneel for him (God, that was so feudal, Enjolras would hate it), maybe get Enjolras to loosen up enough to make _noises_ (God, just the thought of making Enjolras moan) – 

– and Enjolras’s strong hand slid under Grantaire’s shirt against the small of his back; and Grantaire came, in his jeans, as if he were fifteen. 

“Ah,” said Enjolras, like he wasn’t quite sure if that was supposed to happen. 

He didn’t sound judgmental (well, not more judgmental than usual, anyway), but Grantaire felt mortified. He wanted to flee; but that wouldn’t be fair to Enjolras. 

“I’ll just finish you off then?” he offered. 

“Sure,” Enjolras gasped, and Grantaire wished he could see Enjolras’s face, just to see what he was thinking. 

He unzipped Enjolras pants and worked his hand around Enjolras’s cock. Enjolras arched off the doorway, body pressing against Grantaire’s. 

“Does it feel good?” Grantaire asked, a little uncertain. He had a lot of practice, even if it was mostly on himself, but – he wanted to make sure. 

“Yes – yes,” said Enjolras, and Grantaire was a little proud that he’d worked Enjolras down to monosyllables. 

Enjolras didn’t moan when he came. He pressed into Grantaire’s hand, breath hot and fast on Grantaire’s neck, and came, and God, Grantaire wished he could see Enjolras’s face. 

Enjolras rested his forehead on Grantaire’s shoulder for a moment. Then he straightened up and moved away, across the dark room. Grantaire felt very cold without his warmth. The sink ran: cleaning up. 

The light switch flicked. Grantaire jumped at the sudden flood of light. Enjolras looked composed, as always, except his hair was a little mussed. Grantaire raised his hand to brush it down, but Enjolras leaned away a little. 

He wasn’t quite looking at Grantaire. Suddenly Grantaire felt so embarrassed that he couldn’t look at Enjolras either. 

“You should clean up,” Enjolras said, and slipped passed Grantaire out the door. 

Grantaire washed his hands. He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment: as disheveled as Enjolras was composed, his black hair tangled, lips red because he’d been biting them to keep from kissing Enjolras – God, he’d wanted to kiss Enjolras. 

He felt a lump rising in his throat. Oh, this was absurd. He’d never thought he’d get to touch Enjolras at all, and they’d just had _sex_ , what did he have to cry about? 

His eyes stung. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be in the bathroom weeping till Enjolras kicked him out. He splashed his face and left, slamming the bathroom door behind him. 

Enjolras was already mopping, businesslike, as if he had sex in bathrooms every day. Grantaire hovered uncertainly, slowly packing up his things. He ought to leave, he knew, but he wanted – what. Enjolras to say _That was fun_? Or _I’ll call you_? An acknowledgment that something had happened, anyway? 

Enjolras mopped. “Grantaire, you have to leave,” he said, not unkindly, but firm. 

Grantaire felt himself turning red. Right then. “Right,” he said. “I’ll see you?” 

Enjolras nodded, distracted already. Grantaire’s face burned. He gathered up his notebook and fled. 

He found half a bottle of absinthe under his bed. He drank the lot.


	5. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grantaire swayed and almost fell. “I disgust him,” he said._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Grantaire, honey, you just puked all over the floor,” Eponine reminded him gently._

After that, Enjolras ignored him. Grantaire should have expected that, after all. Enjolras had ignored Grantaire before they had sex, and why should he change? More _efficient_ that way. 

Grantaire drank. He wished Enjolras would at least scold him for drinking. It would have been almost like affection, to hear Enjolras snap, “You drink too much.” 

But Enjolras didn’t. Maybe he was ignoring Grantaire even more than he used to. Maybe he was ashamed he’d ever fucked around with Grantaire.

Grantaire started filling his Thermos with Everclear when he went to the café. One hundred and ninety proof. 

A couple weeks later, Grantaire puked all over the café floor. The evening had long since degenerated into a blur, but he saw Enjolras’s face clearly: the absolute disgust twisting his mouth as he dragged Grantaire outside. Probably wondering why he’d ever let such a revolting drunk touch him. The cool night air cleared Grantaire’s head just enough for that thought to hurt. 

Enjolras let go of Grantaire’s trench coat collar and stepped away from him, folding his arms over his chest. Grantaire could not see his face, but Enjolras’s golden hair glowed like a halo in the light of the streetlamp behind him. “I’ll clean it up,” Grantaire offered. 

The shadows hid Enjolras’s face, but his voice was cold. “Go home, Grantaire.” Angry: and no wonder, when Grantaire had just doubled his work for the evening by throwing up all over the café floor. Revolting. 

Tears started in Grantaire’s eyes. “Please let me clean it up,” Grantaire said. “Please, Enjolras – ”

He reached for Enjolras. Enjolras stepped back so hastily that Grantaire lost his balance and fell to his knees on the sidewalk, scraping his hands on the rough concrete when he caught himself. “Please?” he said. 

“Don’t embarrass yourself,” Enjolras said. “Get up off your knees.” 

Grantaire was not certain he could do so without throwing up again. His stomach sloshed unpleasantly, and he looked up at Enjolras, halfway between pleading and defiant. His tears were hot on his face.

“Grantaire – ” Enjolras began, and stopped, and stared helplessly down at Grantaire. The streetlight caught on the lines of his face, strong nose, twisted mouth: so angry, so revolted that Grantaire half-expected Enjolras to spit on him. 

The door opened and Eponine came out, combat boots thunking on the pavement. “Go back to work,” she told Enjolras. “I’ll take him home.” 

Enjolras cast Grantaire one last look that he could not read, and went back inside. 

“He hates me,” Grantaire said desolately. 

Eponine helped him to his feet. “Let’s go home, Grantaire.”

Grantaire swayed and almost fell. “I disgust him,” he said.

“Grantaire, honey, you just puked all over the floor,” Eponine reminded him gently, leading him away. She put a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing his back gently. 

It felt good, but Grantaire was not quite ready to be comforted yet. “I disgust _me_ ,” Grantaire told Eponine woefully. 

Eponine patted his back, steering him toward the dorms. “That’s too bad,” she said. “I usually disgust me too when I’ve been drinking Everclear. How about you stick to tequila from now on, Grantaire?” 

And somehow, despite everything, by the time they were halfway across campus they were belting out “Call Me Maybe” together, forgetting half the words and laughing so hard that they had to hold each other up. 

So maybe Enjolras hated him. But Eponine was a good friend.


	6. Unrequited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’d do anything he asked me to,” Grantaire said; and he knew, no matter how stupid that was, that it was the truth, and it scared him so much he drained the rest of the vodka from his Thermos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story was ticking away pretty nicely...and then I had three term papers due in April. Oops? Sorry for the unexpected month-long hiatus!

Much as Grantaire wanted to marinate in his own self-pity, life went on. Marius brought Cosette to meet the Amis. It should have been a disaster, but everyone loved her. Even Enjolras liked her, in a “You are clearly wrong about everything but at least you believe in _something_ , unlike that drunken idiot Grantaire” sort of way. 

Grantaire was beginning to really enjoy Enjolras’s “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” face. 

Even Eponine, who hated Courfeyrac purely because Marcus liked him so much, warmed to Cosette by their third meeting. “She’s so fucking _nice_ ,” said Eponine, drowning her sorrows in a gigantic hot chocolate. Grantaire had kindly shared vodka from his Thermos so she could spike it; he had even, in supreme sacrifice, sat at a table with a good covert view of Marius and Cosette but no sight-line on Enjolras behind the bar at all. 

Eponine had drunk most of her vodka hot chocolate and was getting philosophical, her head leaned against the table and her spiky hair falling in her face. “See? See?” she said, pulling Grantaire to put his head next to hers.

He had thought she was just falling asleep. But no: with his head at this angle, Grantaire could look through a display of coffee mugs and observe Marius and Cosette without them seeing him. “You’re kind of a creeper, Eponine,” Grantaire said admiringly. 

But Eponine, spooning whipped cream into her mouth without taking her eyes off Marius and Cosette, wasn’t really listening to him. “Most people who are that nice have a seething pit of hate underneath just waiting to bubble up, but _no_ , she just really does love everyone. She even loves _me_.” Eponine shuddered and sat up straight. She kicked back a slug of her vodka-laden hot chocolate. “I _like_ her,” she said, despairing. 

“And Eponine’s heart grew three sizes that day,” intoned Grantaire, fiddling with the lid of his hip flask. Eponine threw a blot of whipped cream at him. “What? Dr. Seuss is my guru.” 

Eponine snorted. “ ‘Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not,’” she quoted, raising a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Try quoting _The Lorax_ at Enjolras, maybe then he’d actually like you.” And the blood drained out of her face. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck. Fuck, Grantaire, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Grantaire said. He took another swig of vodka. “Part of Enjolas’s perfection is how much he despises me.” 

“You can’t mean that,” Eponine protested. “What’s the point of being in love with him if you don’t want him to fall in love with you?” 

Grantaire found Eponine’s question almost as puzzling as she clearly found him. “What’s that got to do with anything? Are you going to give up loving Marius just because he’s got a girlfriend now?” 

“God,” said Eponine. She took a last swig on her hot chocolate, realized it was empty, and chucked it at the trashcan. “Three points! Fuck. And she’s so much more perfect than me, too.” She dropped her head to the table again, not looking at Marius and Cosette this time. “I hate her,” she said. “Except being around her makes me weirdly happy? Like, disgustingly happy. Like, if we started singing, birds would fly out of the trees as if we were Disney princesses happy.” 

“There’s an obvious solution to this,” said Grantaire. Eponine raised her head, looking up at him through her choppy bangs. “Threesome time!” 

Eponine hurled a balled-up napkin at him and buried her head in the table again. 

“What? If you like them both, why not?” Grantaire asked. 

Eponine lifted her head. “If Enjolras asked you to have a threesome with him and, like…” she paused. “God, who would Enjolras sleep with? Mother Earth?”

_Me_ , Grantaire wanted to say, but he wasn’t quite that drunk yet; and he wasn’t sure Eponine would believe him if he told her he’d had sex with Enjolras. Of course Enjolras hadn’t told anyone. Probably ashamed. 

“But wouldn’t it bother you? If he loved Cos – if he loved the third person so much more than you? Wouldn’t that be almost worse than never getting anything?” 

A part of Grantaire – the part that had gotten drunk for three days straight after his encounter with Enjolras – said _yes_. But Grantaire’s mouth said, “No; I’d do anything he asked me to,” and he knew, no matter how stupid that was, that it was the truth, and it scared him so much he drained the rest of the vodka from his Thermos. “I’d rather get crumbs from Enjolras than the whole world from anyone else. Why give up on true love just because it will never be returned? Doesn’t that make it purer, somehow?” 

Eponine rolled her eyes. “Purity – ” she began. 

“More altruistic, I mean,” Grantaire said hastily. Eponine had a whole rant about purity. “Not chaste. Definitely not chaste. Do you know how many times I’ve jacked off thinking of Enjolras’s face?” God, the disapproving look. That got him every time. 

Eponine’s face screwed up. “ _Grantaire._ TMI.” 

“Not chaste, is my point,” said Grantaire. “But isn’t it better to love someone hopelessly, because they’re so much better than you, than to love someone who might return your love, who isn’t nearly as amazing? Don’t you think that, Eponine?” 

“I think you’re trying to help me make bad life choices,” said Eponine. “Which I can do without prompting, thanks anyway.” She looked over at Marius and Cosette again. Cosette noticed and gave her a shining smile and a wave. “Fuck my life,” muttered Eponine, and she pushed back her chair and went over to join them. 

Grantaire contemplated his empty Thermos. He was, he thought, probably drunk enough for the rest of the evening – a shrieking laugh made him look up. Eponine had sat down on Cosette’s lap. 

Yes, definitely drunk enough. Grantaire settled back in his chair to watch. 

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire knocked over his Thermos. The last few drops of vodka dripped onto the table. “Enjolras,” Grantaire said. He couldn’t help a terrible hope rising within him: the last time Enjolras had spoken to him so seriously – without Grantaire throwing up on something first, anyway – they’d ended up fucking the bathroom. 

But that didn’t seem to be on Enjolras’s mind today. He leaned his fists on the table, tendons standing out on his wrists. “Outside,” he said. 

“Okay,” said Grantaire, staring at the lines of Enjolras’s wrists. 

“ _Out_ ,” Enjolras said, his voice sharp enough to draw Grantaire’s eyes to his face. Grantaire’s eyes caught on the line of his jaw, and he stared, mesmerized, till Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s wrist and dragged him to his feet.

“I’m not even drunk,” Grantaire protested. 

Enjolras didn’t respond. The door swung shut behind them; he hauled Grantaire around the corner of the building, the thin spring rain cool on Grantaire’s face. “Enjolras – ”

Enjolras spun to face Grantaire. His face was flushed with fury. “What did you mean you’d do _anything_?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire felt suddenly tired. “You care too much. About everything. Definitely about me.”
> 
> Enjolras stopped pacing. His hair, dark with rain, hung in tails around his face. “I can barely stand you,” Enjolras reminded Grantaire.

The wind drove the thin rain into Grantaire’s face, stinging and cold. His wrist hurt under Enjolras’s tight grip. He was for once at a loss for words. _What did you mean you’d do_ anything _?_ , Enjolras had said, and if he had sounded an iota less furious Grantaire could have happily detailed increasingly obscene meanings of _anything_. But under Enjolras’s narrowed eyes, the perfect cheekbones red with anger, Grantaire felt shy. 

“You were eavesdropping,” he said, instead. 

“No. You were sitting at a table on the other side of the coffee machine,” Enjolras said, his hand still tight on Grantaire’s wrist. It hurt. “Talking. Loudly.” 

Grantaire winced. He didn’t care so much for himself, but Eponine had a thinner skin than he did, and if Marius and Cosette had heard… Cosette would never embarrass Eponine by mentioning it, but Marius was just oblivious enough that he might. “Do you think Marius could hear?” 

Enjolras snorted. “Of course not. Now that Marius is in _love_ – “ a world of scorn in that word – “I doubt he can hear anything but Cosette. Certainly not the cries of the oppressed.” Enjolras’s face crinkled in disgust, his hand tightening on Grantaire’s wrist. Grantaire thought he could feel his wrist bones grinding together. “He thinks Reagan was a great president. _Reagan_.” 

Grantaire licked rain off his lips. “I’m shocked and appalled.” 

“No you’re not.” 

“I guess that would require having feelings,” Grantaire agreed. “And we both know I don’t care about anything. But I’ll pretend if it – ” Enjolras’s hand tightened a little more. Grantaire gasped. “ – if it makes you happy. Could you let go of my wrist?” 

Enjolras did not so much let go as throw Grantaire’s hand away from him. Grantaire inspected the red marks Enjolras’s fingers had left. “Do you think these will bruise?” he asked hopefully. 

Enjolras’s mouth opened and then closed again, and suddenly his ferocious glare melted off his face and he looked down at the ground. Grantaire looked down too, just in case there was a revolutionary message chalked across the concrete – what else would make Enjolras look down? – but there was nothing but a puddle. 

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras again, studying his face. Enjolras’s furious flush had faded, leaving a lighter haze of color on his cheekbones. His eyelashes, downcast and dark with rain, brushed against his cheeks. 

Enjolras was embarrassed. Embarrassed Enjolras might be even more attractive than Enjolras enraged. Thank God he didn’t get embarrassed much. 

Enjolras seemed to force himself to look up. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“What for?” asked Grantaire. 

Enjolras’s flush deepened. He scowled. Embarrassed _and_ angry. Grantaire wanted to stroke his face. “For hurting your wrist. For hurting you. For – ” He looked down again. 

“I don’t mind – ” Grantaire began.

But Enjolras raised his hand. “No, let me finish. I should have said this a long time ago, back when we – I thought you wouldn’t care, I thought it wouldn’t matter to you, that you didn’t feel, that you _weren’t capable_ of feeling anything deeper than lust for me – ”

Enjolras was pacing, his heavy steps kicking up spray from the puddles. His khaki work pants were soaked to the knees. “I looked down on you because you drank so much. It was wrong of me; I was prejudiced. Alcoholism is a disease – ”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Grantaire objected. Enjolras snorted. “Or maybe I am,” Grantaire said. “Who cares?”

“I care!” yelled Enjolras.

Grantaire was taken aback. For a moment, his hopes soared, because from someone else, maybe that would have meant love: but this was Enjolras, who grieved for every tree cut down to make disposable coffee cups. Grantaire felt suddenly tired. “You care too much. About everything. Definitely about me.”

Enjolras stopped pacing. His hair, dark with rain, hung in tails around his face. “I can barely stand you,” Enjolras reminded Grantaire. 

“Yeah, but you – caring isn’t the same thing as liking with you. You despise me, but you’re still wasting time apologizing to me. And you didn’t even do anything wrong.” 

Enjolras’s jaw set in its most mulish cast. “It _is_ wrong that I despise you; it reflects my own prejudice. And because I despised you, I took advantage of your feelings for my own gratification, without thinking about how that would affect – ”

“Enjolras,” interrupted Grantaire. He put a hand on Enjolras’s wrist. “Anytime you want. Please, please take advantage of me.” 

Enjolras jerked his hand away and pressed it to his forehead. He was silent for a long time. Grantaire’s wrist ached. Rain dripped off the ends of his curls down the back of his shirt, cold as it slithered down his spine. 

“I don’t understand you,” Enjolras said suddenly. “You say you’d do anything for me. But what you really mean is, you’d do anything as long as it was bad for you, degrading for you. Maybe you’d kill someone if I asked you to. But you won’t change in any way that _I_ would want you to: you don’t believe in any of my causes, you won’t do any work for them, you won’t even stop drinking or even drink _less_. What kind of _I’d do anything_ is that, Grantaire?” 

It was true, all of it, and that hurt. “I’d do anything I can do,” Grantaire protested. “But I can’t – it’s not possible to change into a different person.” 

“Of course it is,” Enjolras insisted. “Be the change you want to see in the world. That’s how it begins.”

“How _what_ begins?” Grantaire asked. 

“A better world.” Enjolras paused, and then added fiercely, “Utopia.”

Grantaire snorted. He shouldn’t make fun of Enjolras’s dreams, he knew; but he couldn’t help it. “ _Utopia_?” he said, and couldn’t keep a hint of mockery out his voice. 

Enjolras’s nostrils flared. “What else? Do you even listen to anything I say, Grantaire, or do you just sit there and daydream about fucking me?” 

“I thought you had decided I wasn’t quite that shallow,” Grantaire said, and that shut Enjolras up for a moment. ““Your better world is still going to have humans living in it,” Grantaire continued. “What makes you think life with humans will ever be anything but solitary, nasty, brutish and short?”

“Hobbes.” Enjorlas spit out the philosopher’s name as if it tasted bad. Then, inspecting Grantaire’s face with some surprise, Enjolras said, “You’ve read Hobbes?” 

“I’ve read lots of things,” said Grantaire, annoyed. “Hobbes, _Harry Potter_ …” He grinned, remembering Eponine’s comment about the Lorax. “Dr. Seuss. I _do_ listen when you talk, Enjolras. I think ninety-three percent of what you say is bullshit, but I listen to every word.”

“And what’s the other seven percent?”

“Coffee orders,” Grantaire said brightly. 

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. “Grantaire.” 

“That’s the difference between us,” Grantaire said. “You think you can change the world. And I know that no one can.”


End file.
